


Marching Band

by RoseAngel



Series: The Red Thread [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alternate Universe - Marching Band, First Meetings, Gen, Little bit of a play on A Study in Pink, Marching Band, Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-19
Updated: 2016-06-19
Packaged: 2018-07-15 22:28:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7241320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RoseAngel/pseuds/RoseAngel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An invisible red thread connects those who are destined to meet, regardless of time, place, or circumstance. The thread may stretch or tangle, but will never break. - Ancient Chinese belief</p>
<p>A series of alternate ways that John and Sherlock could have met. PROMPT FIC.</p>
<p>Prompt #4: marching band.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Marching Band

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first prompt that I received from someone who commented on this fic, and I am absolutely thrilled about it. Today's prompt comes from FanFiction.Net user GenderBender25.
> 
> A billion thanks to my brilliant beta, Becca (LlamaWithAPen).

By chance, when John was in high school, he joined a marching band.

Well, no, that wasn't quite correct – in the end, joining the marching band had been his choice. The circumstances that had led up to his joining, however, could be described as chance.

The band had not existed until halfway through his time at the school. It was by chance that he had ended up in the same music class as the girl who had set it up. It was by chance that their assigned seating arrangements put them close enough together to be forced to interact, and this was the reason why John had found out about and been invited to join the band. The band started only with some of the people from his music class; it was by chance that he had been in this class, put in the position where he could make this choice.

(And, okay, maybe a fair portion of the reason why he made the choice in the end was because the girl who set up the band was very, very pretty, and John wanted an excuse to spend more time with her, but, motivations aside, he had still been one of the first to join.)

When he'd first told his friends, it had been a bit of a joke, something to laugh at. John was a music student, yes, but when it came to extra-curricular activities, John was into sports. John was captain of the school's rugby team, and on the days when he did not have training with his team, he would be training himself, or following his own fitness routines. Most of his friends were on the team with him, many of them even more focussed on sport than John was. John had a balance, between sport and academic school work and music; some of his friends, on the other hand, let sport take up all their time, prioritising it over anything else, because it was what they wanted to do with their lives. And some of these friends were almost completely stereotypical, when it came to the divide between sport and music. To them, a marching band was ridiculous and cheesy, and it had been something to laugh at.

It had been a joke to most of the school, at first, too, because the original group was a very small and very unusual marching band. The number of students at the school who could play musical instruments and were willing to join and commit to a marching band was small, and so the young woman who started it all didn't put any limitations on what instruments could be played in the band. This meant that John's clarinet – an unusual (though not unheard of) instrument to see in a marching band in the first place – was joined by a guitarist, a pianist who managed to get her hands on a keyboard that was light enough to be portable, a trombone player, and a drummer who had never actually played the drums but who liked the company of the band members and figured that drums would be easy enough to learn. It wasn't in any sense what would come to mind when someone heard the words 'marching band', but it was where they began.

Odd combination of instruments aside, all of them were talented musicians with a passion for the instrument that they were learning. So, they made it work. It took time, and long practice sessions, and a lot of trial and error when it came to working out what instruments sounded the best together, but they made it work. And when they played at the school assembly, they took everyone by surprise, too.

After that, the band did not have quite as bad a reputation, and people were much more willing to sign up. It expanded, and the bigger it got, the better it got. John had always liked music, but with his involvement in the band, his interest developed into something more like a passion. He looked forward to practice every week, and even, once or twice, tried his hand at composing, so he could offer suggestions to the group from time to time. The large group of people became a strong community, too; although it got so large that people had their own, smaller groups within the group, it was still like one big family, and everyone felt like they belonged. Well, at least John did, he could say that for certain.

But, for John, the marching band was an extra-curricular activity, and not a career. Some of his band members went on to study music at university, some looking for a career in music. But John – John studied to become a doctor, and then he joined the army. His memories of his high school days, his marching band days, were fond ones, but that was all they were – memories. Sometimes, John would wonder if, one day, when he came home from Afghanistan, he might join a marching band again, but for the most part, it was nothing but a fantasy.

Then he got shot, and, despite the hole being in his shoulder, it somehow caused pain in his leg, pain that flared up when he got stressed and kept him limping and relying on a cane when he recovered enough to walk. From then, the memories of being in a marching band could be nothing but memories and dreams, and thoughts of being in a marching band again became an idle fantasy that would never come to pass. After all, how could he be in a marching band if he couldn't march?

OoO

By chance, John happened to be out one day when a marching band came to London.

As time passed following his return to London, John was able to get back on his feet, at least figuratively speaking. He learnt to accommodate the cane like it was a part of his body (a better part than the leg that ached without a mark anywhere to be seen), and he learnt ways to cope with the panic attacks that came with waking up in the dark of the night with the taste of sand and blood in his mouth. It was enough to let him get a job, just locum work at a small surgery, enough to earn money to move out of his bedsit into a nicer flat. He even clicked with his boss at the surgery, enough so that they started dating, spending time together whenever their schedules allowed them both some free time.

It didn't feel like living, not like it had when John had been in Afghanistan. But, he was surviving. It was something.

The day that the marching band had come to London happened to be one of the days that John and his boss – Sarah – had been spending time together. It was his day off work, and it was a quiet enough day at the surgery for Sarah to justify having her lunch outside rather than in her office. They hadn't had a huge amount of time, and they both knew that, so they had decided that it was best for them to just spend Sarah's lunch break at a cafe nearby the surgery. They still had time to pass when they finished their meals, and John had offered to walk her back to the surgery – they could take their time (they would have to, really, given his leg). Then the distant sound of music had caught their attention, and of course, they had to take a detour in the direction of the sound.

Sarah didn't know about John's experience with his marching band. How could she, when it was something he had never deemed relevant enough to talk about? However, marching bands in London weren't something you saw every day, and with the sound of the drums, the music, the commotion, they couldn't resist following the sound until they saw it.

And the sight of the band brought so many memories back in John's mind – memories that he had shut out before now, not because they were bad memories themselves, but because they were good memories, and it hurt, sometimes, to remember the life that John had lost. The band was far more extravagant than John's, of course – it was larger, more professional, and it naturally looked and sounded more spectacular. However, just seeing it was enough to remind John of how much he had loved being in a marching band, even in a small one like the one at his school. He missed it more than he was willing to admit.

There were crowds of people on either side of the street, making room for the band, clapping in time with the beat. It made it difficult for John and Sarah to get a proper view of the band, but John didn't mind that much. He could appreciate the way they sounded even if he couldn't see them properly. However, for Sarah, it wasn't good enough – she grabbed his free hand and all but dragged him through the crowd. At first, he didn't understand why they were moving away from the band and not towards them, until he realised that she was taking him further down the street, so they could find a position with a better view, where they could see the band as it marched towards them.

And what a _sight_. The sound of the music that the band made was brilliant enough, but with their new position, John could only be even more awestruck. Each of the band members was clearly an expert in what they did, playing their instruments in a way that made it look effortless, all while marching in time with the other band members. John could see the footsteps of each of the band members, landing on the ground and rising into the air at the same time, it was almost as though they were watching one man mirrored dozens of times, each of them looking like reflections with the way their outfits matched and the way their movements were synchronised.

There was only one character in the band, at least that John could see, who was not marching in time with the other band members: the tall, dark-haired baton twirler standing front and centre. Rather than marching in time with the other band members, the baton twirler was dancing around, spinning and jumping and throwing his baton in the air, catching it after several brilliantly executed flips. This man alone was enough to make John grateful that Sarah had dragged him to the front of the crowd, because alone, he was breathtaking. He made it look effortless, like every time he tossed his baton into the air it was drawn back to his hand like a magnet, like his hand was a target impossible for the baton to miss. John let his eyes wander the marching band as much as he could, trying to take it all in, but his gaze was continuously drawn back to the baton twirler at the front.

When the band finished their piece, drums booming, trumpets blaring, and the baton twirler at the front catching his spinning baton straight out of the air, the people in the street exploded in applause. John clapped along with the cheering crowd, and then, as the band took their bows, he glanced over at Sarah to see that she had picked something up off the street. Looking over her shoulder, he saw immediately what it was – a flyer announcing that the band was putting on a proper performance at the football stadium that weekend. This performance, marching through the streets of London, was an advertisement to encourage more people to come and see the show.

And it was a brilliant advertisement, because John and Sarah were in agreement that they absolutely had to go.

OoO

By chance, come the weekend, John and Sarah got front row seats.

There was no assigned seating at the stadium, so people just filed in as they pleased, taking a seat on the stands. A front row seat wasn't necessarily better than a back row seat – a back row seat gave a more full view of the band from above, whereas a front row seat gave a better view of the band members near the front. The screens on the sides of the stadium gave everyone a clear view of the most important parts of the show. John had no preference, when it came to choosing a seat, and the nearest empty seat was in the front row, so that was where they sat.

The sight of the band marching through London had been spectacular, but as the show began, it became clear that their advertisement was only a small portion of what they could do. With the size of the field that the stadium afforded them, they were not only limited to what they could do with their instruments; they used the space to make formations on the ground. Rather than merely marching in time, lines swapped and moved, spelling out words with their bodies, or shapes that related to the song, like symbols from movies when they played a theme tune. Although John and Sarah were seated at the front, they were able to see the formations on the screens, and they applauded with everyone else both throughout the pieces and at the end.

John was so very grateful, however, that they had gotten front row seats when it came to one particular piece. The previous piece had left the band members marching into neat lines, and in this piece, they did not move, with the exception of the baton twirler at the front. In the previous pieces, he had spun the baton around his arm or his wrist, or thrown it into the air and caught it, but in this piece, he really let loose. He spun and he leapt and he flipped, using the space at the front of the band, and never once did he miss a beat, never once did he drop his baton.

John had never seen a baton twirler before, so he had nothing with which he could compare this man, but perhaps that only made John think he was all the more phenomenal. The band in high school had been focussed mainly on the way they could make their instruments sound, and not the visual show that they could put on. Seeing the baton twirler here, however, made John realise how much more this visual display could add. The music alone was brilliant, but with the addition of the baton twirler, front and centre – it was an excellent way to keep the attention of every member of the audience trained on them.

When they came to their big finish (complete, appropriately, with the explosion of confetti canons), John was one of the first on his feet to applaud, clapping and cheering and forgetting, just for a moment, that usually he needed to stand with a cane.

OoO

By chance, one week later, John met the baton twirler on the Tube.

John preferred taking cabs, usually, but he forced himself to take the Tube from time to time to save money. It was never the most pleasant trip home – especially not during peak hour, when the carriages were crowded – but it did not take too much longer than taking a cab, and, more importantly, it was cheaper, which was exactly what John needed during the weeks when he was not given as many shifts as he would like.

John had to squeeze between people to get on – it felt like every single person in London had had the same idea as him and had decided to take the exact same Tube home at the exact same time – which made John immediately regret his decision even though his bank account would appreciate it. Fortunately, as much as he hated being seen as weak and as much as he hated his leg, his cane did afford him some privileges – a young woman, as soon as she saw him, vacated her seat so that he could sit down. It still meant he was squished – this time between two people sitting down rather than a crowd of people standing up – but it was still an improvement. At least he did not have to worry about falling on top of whoever stood next to him should the Tube jerk and his cane slide on the ground.

However, the experience of sitting down on the Tube was made worse by the fact that the man next to him had an instrument case in his lap. It might not have been a huge case, but it really should have been on the floor of the Tube and not on the man's lap, because John could feel it poking into his thigh, and what started off as a slight irritation took only a minute to grow into something much greater. John was not about to blow up in a fit of rage, but he was annoyed enough to turn to face the man in order to tell him to get his bloody case out of John's way.

It was at this point, however, that John caught a proper look at the man's face, and it made him hesitate. There was something strikingly familiar about the way the man looked, though John couldn't work out who he was immediately. John had had a lot of friends before Afghanistan that he had put little to no effort into getting in contact with once again following his return, and it was for this reason that the familiarity made him hesitate – there was every possibility that the familiar-looking man was someone that John had been close to once upon a time, someone who might even be offended if John failed to recognise them. His mind was going through lists of the people he spent time with at university, or in his earlier jobs, though no one was popping out to him at the moment. John was convinced, though, that he had seen the man somewhere, and the distinctness of his features made John feel like he wasn't making a mistake, so, rather than telling the man to get his bloody case out of John's lap, he said, "Hey, don't I know you?"

The man glanced at him out of the corner of his eye. The way he was sitting up straight, the height difference between him and John, and the blank expression on his face made it look like he was looking down on John, like John was, in some way, beneath him. "Not likely."

However, despite the man's denial, it was at that moment that John was able to place the face, and his eyes lit up. "Oh," he said, immediately going from annoyed (at the case in the man's lap) to interested. "Oh, I know you. You were in the marching band."

"Yes," the man said shortly, without properly turning to look at John, "although I don't think that counts as 'knowing me'."

John ignored the second part of the reply and continued, "You were the baton twirler."

"Yes," the man said again, and it was clear from the man's short responses that he was not in the mood for a conversation. Which was fair enough, really, because John was generally not in the mood for a conversation either. If someone came up to him on a Tube and started talking, he would probably be annoyed too. So, John decided that he could just say one last thing, and then he would shut up and they could both enjoy the rest of their ride home in peace.

"You were brilliant," he said, turning his attention back to the opposite side of the carriage, straight across from him, to show that he was prepared to leave the conversation at that.

However, it seemed that the compliment – a compliment that John would have expected the man to get all the time – was enough to turn the man's attention onto him properly. He seemed surprised. "Oh," he said. "Thank you."

John offered the man a slight smile and said, "You're welcome", before turning his gaze back to the front.

Unfortunately, when the baton twirler also shifted to face the front again, John realised that he was not content to just sit here in silence – not because he felt any overwhelming need to start a conversation, but because the case in the man's lap was _still_ digging into his thigh. John was not annoyed at the man so much anymore, because he was no longer a stranger in John's mind, but someone who, previously, John had been impressed by. However, this admiration was not enough for John to be willing to sit back and deal with being uncomfortable for the length of the ride.

He turned back to the man beside him and gestured to the case. "Sorry, could you put that on the floor, please?" he asked, which was a lot more polite than the way he would have asked had the man next to him not turned out to be the baton twirler.

The man did, at least, shift a little to move the case in his lap, so that it was not digging quite so hard into John's thigh, but with the size of it, there was only so much he could do. John would have preferred it to be put on the floor, like he had asked, but the man's response to that was to shake his head. "No, I don't want it to get damaged."

Which was fair enough, really, John thought to himself, but it was still annoying nonetheless. He attempted to shift, to angle his body away from the man in a way that kept his legs out of the way of the case. It was largely unsuccessful.

"Why is that coming with you, anyway?" he asked, rubbing his thigh absently. "It seems a bit impractical to carry it around everywhere, given the size."

"It doesn't come with me everywhere," the man said. "However, from time to time it is necessary to transport it. People sitting next to me don't usually complain."

(John thought to himself that, perhaps, people did not usually complain because people were a lot more polite than John, or perhaps the other times that the man had taken the case around, there had been more space on the Tube for him and whoever sat next to him to spread out.)

Rather than stating this, John asked, "What's in it, anyway? It's a bit bigger than you'd need for your batons, isn't it?"

The expression the man gave him made John feel like he had just asked a very stupid question, as did the man's next comment. "Isn't it obvious?" he asked. "It's a violin case."

That caught John's attention, dragging his attention away from the case that was poking into his thigh for a moment. "Oh?" he asked, raising his eyebrows in interest. "You play violin as well as baton twirling."

"The two aren't mutually exclusive. Violin is my main focus, generally, but there is little room for a violinist in a marching band."

John cracked a smile. "Oh, I'm sure you could always be the first. Make it a slightly more unusual combination of instruments. It worked well enough for my band in school."

The man turned his neck to look at John properly, and John noticed his bright eyes flicker down his form and back up again, as though he was examining him. "Ah, yes," he murmured. "Woodwind?"

John blinked in surprise. "Clarinet," he confirmed. "How on earth did you know?"

The man shrugged his shoulders dismissively, making a vague gesture to all of John. "Size of your fingers, shape of your mouth, lung capacity," he said, and John frowned at the mention of lung capacity, suddenly very aware of each inhale. "You'd be best at playing woodwind-type instruments. Bit of a lucky guess, of course – there was every possibility that the instrument you played was not the instrument that I would expect you to have the most success with, but it seems I was right."

"Seems so," John murmured. "That's some lucky guess. I'm impressed."

"Oh?" the man asked. "Most people are made uncomfortable by my deductions."

"Are they? Sounds like a poor reason to be uncomfortable to me. The fact that you could work that out from just looking at me is brilliant."

The expression on the man's face was a mixture of surprise and confusion, making John believe that it really was the case that most people weren't impressed by the man making accurate guesses about their life. John did, however, get the impression that the man was a little bit flattered by the compliment, too.

"Indeed," the man murmured softly after a pause, and John smiled.

After a moment, John shifted the cane in his grip and extended one hand. "I'm John," he said.

The man looked a bit taken aback, but it only took him another couple of seconds to reach out and clasp John's hand in an awkward handshake (awkward because of their position, sitting side by side on the Tube, more so than anything else). "Sherlock," he said, and John smiled warmly at him before releasing his hand so that they could both settle back into their own seats.

"I miss being in a marching band," John said quietly after a few moments of silence, broken up only by the sounds of the wheels rolling along the tracks. "I know my school band wasn't anything spectacular – nothing like yours, of course – but I miss it."

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the man's – Sherlock's – gaze flicker to his thigh, and he realised only then that he was rubbing it unconsciously. He clenched and unclenched his hand to make himself stop.

"Is that the only reason why you haven't tried to re-join one?" Sherlock asked, gesturing to his leg and his cane, and John wanted to snap the cane in half, as though punishing the inanimate object would solve the problem. Of course, he knew that the only thing that that would result in was a broken cane and nothing to take his weight as he limped shamefully back home.

Pushing his annoyance at his own body aside, John nodded once. "Yeah," he said. "Can't really be in a marching band if I can't even walk properly, can I?"

"It's psychosomatic," Sherlock said. John turned his head to stare at him.

"Excuse me?"

"Your limp. It's psychosomatic. In your head, if you will."

John pursed his lips and turned his gaze away. "No, it's not," he said, finding himself remembering having this exact same conversation with his therapist. The fact that this complete stranger supported her suggestion did not mean she was right. "Trust me, I know my own body."

"You were in the army, correct?" Sherlock asked, and John nodded shortly, feeling tenser than he had several moments ago.

"Yes. Is that obvious?"

"Your tan and your haircut make it clear enough, coupled with the limp. You were wounded in action. Psychosomatic injuries are common in that setting."

"Yeah, and you know what else is common in that setting?" John asked. "Actual injuries. Gunshot wounds. And things much worse."

"Mm, and you were shot," Sherlock said, looking over John in a way that almost made John feel like Sherlock could see straight through him, straight through layers of clothing to the ugly scar on his shoulder. He reminded himself that people did not have the powers of x-ray vision before he gave into the temptation to angle his wounded shoulder away.

Fortunately, it was at that point that the Tube came to a stop, and it gave John an escape route. "It was nice to meet you, Sherlock," he said, getting to his feet and with the help of his cane. "All the best with your violin and the band."

Then he joined the crowd moving out.

OoO

By chance, John chose to have dinner at a restaurant one night when Sherlock was doing the same thing.

John did not usually eat out. He had a job now, which meant he had more money that he could spend on himself compared to when he was living off an army pension, but he did not work quite enough to be able to spend carelessly. Food was a necessity, but John could – and did, normally – choose cheaper options, making himself something at home rather than eating out. It was surprising how much money you could save just by making your own lunch to take to work instead of buying something from a cafe.

However, tonight was going to be a date night, with Sarah, and John had been prepared to go out. He had been just about ready to go when his phone vibrated, and he received a call from Sarah saying that there had been a family emergency and she would not be able to make it as planned. John didn't blame her. These things happened, and it was outside of her control. However, he was ready to go out, and he had hyped himself up for restaurant food, so he couldn't say he wanted to go and cook. So, he figured he might as well treat himself to dinner, just this once.

The fact that it happened to be the same restaurant where Sherlock, too, was treating himself to dinner, was pure chance.

(Well, either that or Sherlock was stalking him, you could never be too sure).

Lost in thought and paying little attention to his surroundings, John didn't even notice that Sherlock was in the same restaurant until Sherlock slid into the seat across from him. The action was so unexpected that it took John a moment to recognise the man. The fact that he slid into the seat without even asking permission was startling.

The man did not even look at John as he sat down, either. Instead, his gaze was immediately fixated on the window by John's table, staring intently at something outside. Perhaps this was why John did not immediately tell Sherlock to leave him alone; he couldn't deny that he was interested in why Sherlock had come to invade his space like this. "Hello again," he greeted, doing his best to be polite. "Didn't expect to see you here."

Sherlock didn't even acknowledge John's question, let alone respond to it. His gaze remained fixated on the window, and John wasn't even sure if Sherlock had heard him. After a moment, he prompted, somewhat awkwardly, "Um, did you want something?"

The silence stretched between them for another moment, which just made John feel more uncomfortable. However, when Sherlock spoke, that feeling became even worse. Sherlock did not turn away from the window, and he spoke in a hushed tone, as though he did not want to be overheard. "Are you aware that the man in that car has been watching you since you got here?"

John felt his blood run cold, and he turned to look at the window, following Sherlock's gaze to the car that was parked by the side of the road. When he looked closely, he could tell that there was someone in there – he could see the shadow of a person sitting in the front seat. However, he would not have realised that the person was looking at him, not if Sherlock hadn't said so. To John, it looked like the person had their back to John. Maybe they did – maybe they had turned around when they had noticed John and Sherlock looking.

"Why would they be watching me?" John hissed, dropping his voice to a tone as low as Sherlock's, even though there was surely no way that they could be heard by the driver, not through the window.

"I wouldn't know," Sherlock replied with a shrug. "But if you haven't noticed up until now, then there is every possibility that they've been following you for a while." The words were said in a tone that was completely calm, as though Sherlock didn't even care at all that the implications could be that John was in some sort of danger. The only emotion he seemed to be expressing was intrigue. John, however, felt his heart racing.

"What am I supposed to do?" he asked.

"Find out what they want."

John started to speak again, to ask how he was meant to do that, but it was at that moment that the car's brake lights turned off and the vehicle started to move. Sherlock interrupted him with a "Come on!" and all but leapt out of the seat, racing towards the door. And John, his own heart pounding in his chest, rushed to follow.

They ran out into the street, the car already making a turn around the corner, disappearing from sight. John barely had time to glance at the license plate, but he tried to commit the number to memory. There was no way that they could chase it and expect to catch up.

At least, that was what John thought. Sherlock, however, seemed to have something else in mind. He barely even glanced at John when John tried to tell him that he had memorised the license plate number; instead, he squeezed his eyes shut tight, brow furrowed in thought. At first, John thought it was frustration, that Sherlock was beating himself up for letting the car get away. Then Sherlock's eyes lit up, and he exclaimed, "This way!" and barely gave John the time to react before he was racing around the corner, and John was rushing to catch up.

It was like Sherlock had a map of London in his head. Somehow, he seemed to know every back street and alleyway, every way in and way out of tight spots. He was ahead of John the whole time, faster than John, but he never got too far away, yelling, "Come on, John!" every time he disappeared from sight so that John didn't lose track of him. They raced down streets and around corners, and then into an alley and up a fire escape onto the roof of the building. They raced along the rooftop, and then Sherlock, with his impossibly long legs, did some sort of flying leap from the building to the next.

John skidded to a stop at the building's edge, suddenly aware of how high up they were, how long the gap was, how many injuries he would sustain if he fell. Surely he couldn't make that jump. Then Sherlock yelled, "Come on!" and John knew that he had no choice – it was follow, or get left behind. He took a few steps back, took a running start, and made a leap of faith, surprising himself when his feet hit the other side.

The momentum kept him running, but Sherlock hadn't gotten too far ahead. In fact, Sherlock had not gotten beyond the edge of the building. He was standing there, looking down at the street below – perhaps he was trying to find a way down. John slowed his running to a stop before the momentum propelled him right off the roof.

"What happened?" he asked. "Did we lose him?"

Sherlock turned around to face him, but he did not look frustrated, like John would have expected. Instead, he looked... amused?

"I lied," Sherlock said.

"What?"

"The man in the car wasn't watching you." When John's brow furrowed, he continued, "In fact, I doubt he was even parked outside the restaurant for long. He just happened to have stopped when I joined your table."

John took half a step backwards, somehow feeling as though he had been tricked, lured into some sort of trap, though Sherlock was not approaching him or in any other way behaving in a threatening manner. "Why would you say something like that?" he asked.

"I was proving a point."

"What point?"

The amused expression on Sherlock's face only grew. "You ran after me," he said, and then, after a moment, added, "Without your cane."

And it was only in that moment that John realised what had happened. How had he not realised it until now? Was it the adrenaline pumping through his system, the fear that came with thinking that somehow had been watching him, potentially even stalking him? He stared down at himself as though he couldn't believe it (because, in truth, he couldn't). His cane would still be in the restaurant, resting against the seat where he had left it. His stance was even, he wasn't favouring one leg over the other. He was in no pain.

He looked back up at Sherlock again, with an unmasked look of astonishment, and Sherlock's face broke into a grin.

"Now you have no excuse," Sherlock said.

"No excuse to do what?" John asked.

"No excuse to not join a marching band."

John stared at Sherlock for a good two seconds, and then burst into laughter, and Sherlock echoed the sound.

OoO

By chance, Sherlock's marching band held try-outs three weeks later.

By choice, John tried out.


End file.
